It's been three months since I last wrote on this blog, but certainly not for lack of want. If I had the time to devote to writing my thoughts and experiences, I would, but instead medical school has consumed my life even more so than last year. And I didn't think that would be possible.
What started inauspiciously enough soon turned into the most relentless semester I have ever had in any form of schooling, and to complicate that, countless out-of-school things have been seriously affecting me as well. Unfortunately there hasn't been a ton of good in my life lately, but I can't despair too much since I'm still alive and my family is also alive and healthy, too (the latter being rather pertinent in the last couple of months).
Still, the combination of school and life has made my existence pretty exhausting and lonely. And as one thing builds upon another, I find myself spiraling downward into getting busier and busier, getting more and more determined to dig myself out of the hole of a setback that I'm in. With that determination, though, comes worry. For the first time in my life I find myself unable to get the worries of school out of my head.
I went to a football game on Saturday, yet all I could think about was school. When I hang out with others (which doesn't happen terribly often given my schedule), my mind rarely wanders away from school for very long at all. It's been awful and not something I can see myself shaking until this semester is over. I hate it, and I hate that med school doesn't allow me the time to deal with things, so I just have to keep going, which really sucks. But this blog post isn't supposed to be a complain-fest of sad stories and worried parlance.
One of the few bright spots in the past few months, as foolish as it may sound, has been racing. I've mentioned before that it's one of the only things I have allowed myself to enjoy in school, and as problems and concerns have mounted this season, and as I've whittled more and more things away from my life, F1 has remained.
Nowhere was this more evident than the epic trip we took to Austin last weekend for my birthday to go to the US Grand Prix. The journey and our stay in the Lone Star State was incredible, and so many times it seemed that the stars aligned for us to make for an even better, more unbelievable weekend.
We got tons of free stuff; we met wonderful people from all over the world; we stood next to Niki Lauda, Damon Hill and Johnny Herbert; we were personally shown an actual helmet worn by Ayrton Senna the year we were born (1988); I met one of my Twitter followers for the first time after he had been working on a vintage racecar; we got interviewed by the track entertainment personnel and were broadcast on the big screens in front of 113,000 people; we got to invade the track and made friends with some members of the Lotus F1 team (who gave us some brilliant team hats); and so much more. I couldn't believe it.
I also couldn't believe that for over two days, I almost never thought of med school. Heck, when we were at the track, it never crossed my mind. Only in passing after we left the track each day did it ever enter my mind, and it was wonderful. I felt like a person again. I felt like an actual human being who could have passions and had a hobby to which I could devote time. For once people were asking ME questions, and I was the only one who could answer them. This was my realm. This was my sport.
Looking back, I'm amazed at the transformation in me as I got nearer to Formula 1 last weekend. Even on the way back, in the middle of the night several hours into our 14-hour drive, I was feeling so tired. I was around 110 miles into my first or second stint, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to go much longer before switching with my friend. While he slept in the backseat, the only other person awake in the car started asking me about F1. We talked about "Rush", we talked about Bernie and his legacy, we discussed the recent history of some of the sport's luminaries, and we speculated on the future of Grand Prix racing. In no time at all, I had taken us over 220 miles and was feeling rather refreshed. For the first time in recent memory I could speak about something with confidence and excellent recall, and there wasn't a question I couldn't answer.
Over the course of the weekend I ended up driving over 1,100 miles, and I was beyond exhausted. But it was worth it. For one weekend I felt alive again, so strikingly refreshed that I could breathe in the sport's nuances and feel them in my blood. I was no longer lonely, for once being completely surrounded by people who shared a common love with me that every other day of the year draws confused looks and erroneous comparisons. It was one of the most memorable birthdays I've ever had.
Fast-forward one week later, though, and the teams are celebrating tonight in Sao Paulo, Brazil, capping off a long season whose twists and turns reach back to a warm March day in Australia. They bid adieu to V8 engines, another year of Red Bull/Sebastian Vettel domination, Ross Brawn at Mercedes, and one of my favorite drivers. Mark Webber's surprisingly emotional end to his Formula 1 career went by far too quickly, although he tried to prolong it as best he could. But that's a whole other blog post.
Tonight I'm wondering what the next few months will be like for me, and it saddens me to know that something that was such a big part of what little life I had left is going to be absent for a third of a year. I would be lying if I said that worries of the coming finals for med school aren't creeping into my head tonight as a result, but I'll live. I always have. The end of seasons always make me a little sad, but with everything else that has gone on this year, it's difficult not to take that loss a little harder. Still, I can reflect on a brilliant season, and I can look forward to the changes that will hopefully shake up the sport for the better. While I remain skeptical on some of them, others I think will only do good things for Formula 1. Only time will tell.
So tonight I join hundreds of millions of F1 fans around the world to say goodbye to the 2013 season, hoping that my life next March will be accommodating enough to let it back into my everyday enjoyment. But for two and a half more hours tonight it's still race day, and earlier this morning a Grand Prix was run in front of some of the most storied and passionate F1 fans in the world. Life was good. Let the offseason begin tomorrow.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
24 November, 2013
27 June, 2013
Progress that is wonderful to me, but inconsequential to an oblivious world
Some days in The Garage are definitely more fun than others, and while the past few days have been wonderful, there have been tinges of disappointment as well. First, I'll start with the good.
As storms worked their way through the area and the humidity soared, I knew I couldn't do much with paint/primer and filler, so I thought I'd explore The Garage a little. Moving the ladder around, I peeked above the plywood boards that make up the ceiling to see the loft---a mysterious frontier that has sat perfectly still for half a century. The last person to move things around up there was my late grandfather, slowly accumulating items that he would buy from businesses that were closing their doors.
As a result, the bizarre mishmash of everything that occupies the loft in The Garage is wonderfully enigmatic. Here's a fender, there's a grille, here's a box of bearings from the 1920s, there's a 1930s soapbox full of 1930s gauges. On and on it goes, and it's all tossed so haphazardly in the dark, dusty space under the peak of the roof that I have to carry a light with me as I slide my way around on my stomach.
I spent several hours up there over two days, and I found a multitude of things that only I could appreciate (at least around here). I plucked countless antiques from the dusty piles of randomness, cradling them in my arms like precious cargo each time I descended the ladder. Meticulously I would brush them clean, admiring them both for the fact that they had sat untouched for decades and that they were last handled by my grandpa so many years ago.
In the end I was so thrilled with some of the treasures I uncovered, even if most people would dismiss them as a disjointed set of car parts and knickknacks.
By the time the weather improved I could finally work on the Maxwell and continue with my cleaning of the transmission.
In a way I had been blessed by the foibles of the old compressor, as all of the word I had received from the gentleman who had worked on these cars said not to sandblast the alloy case. Thankfully my blasting had only knocked off the top layer of grease and not damaged the transmission, so I took down the tarps that hung from the car's sides and got a screwdriver and mineral spirits. Scraping off the thickest dried grease, I then dabbed the metal with mineral spirits recycled from the transmission case.
After letting it sit for a few moments, I used a wire brush to scrub, and that worked extremely well. As of today, the entire crankcase is perfectly clean, and it looks incredible. Yes, this was much more work than using the sandblaster, but my unspoken mantra of using as few power tools as possible during the restoration appreciated it.
With the case clear, I set out to remove the remainder of the linkages that would normally sit under the front floor (these included linkages for the brakes, clutch and gears). It was here where the bane of my existence, those pesky rusted pins, began to mess with me again.
So painfully simple, these smooth pins are only held in with a cotter pin, yet over the last century they've become rusted and seized in their holes, refusing to budge even with the roughest persuasion I could apply. Two of these pins in particular hung up my restoration for several hours in the past couple of days.
Over the course of my efforts I used a screwdriver, a hammer, a bigger hammer, various chisels, vice grips, other bolts, two C-clamps (one of which I actually managed to crack in two) and a blowtorch. Eventually I triumphed over both, but one of the arms coming off the clutch had bent slightly, so I used a massive four-foot-long prybar to bend it back today.
After all of this, I had every one of the linkages off and began work on cleaning and smoothing them. I did the same for the gear selector plate (that pivots on the gearbox and moves the fork inside). I scrubbed incessantly with the wire brush on the frame, occasionally uncovering some of the original blue paint that once adorned the entire underbody.
Over time I headed up to the engine to scrub there, and at the same time I started some disassembly (only of the most superficial parts). I took the radiator fan off to clean and smooth it, and I must say, that turned out beautifully. I only had to replace the ball bearings a few times after they all fell out, but by the end I had provisions in place to stop them from escaping again.
Excitingly, I'm nearly ready to reassemble all of those linkages, which means I can move entirely to the engine for the immediate future. I realize some aspects of this may require quite a bit of work---possibly removing the entire engine from the car for a while, or at least taking off the heads to clean the cylinders---and in some cases this will take a couple of people to do, but I'm thrilled to get there. I didn't know how long it would take me to sort everything out rearward, but I didn't figure I would get into the engine for quite some time. I can only do so much, though.
Scouring the exploded views from some 1910 books, I'm wondering where the oil tank on my car went (or even if it had one). I'm wondering when the fuel lines disappeared (or the entire gas tank, for that matter), and I'm wondering how the shaft of the magneto interfaces with the sleeve on the top of the transmission case. I don't know where the coil went (but I think it poked through the firewall), or if we can find a new one. I don't have a wiring loom yet, nor do I have a couple of hoses. I know the carburetor is not the correct one, which was common for cars back then, but I don't know how to make this one work with the car, either. I could go on and on, but I won't. The point is, while I can see the necessary steps to complete the restoration in my head, I'm not sure how I'll complete a couple of those steps along the way.
This is definitely disappointing, as every other time I think about the car, it feels like I'm getting more and more ahead of schedule in completing it. What was once a distant, undated future completion date is drawing nearer and nearer with every 6+ hour shift I put in, but some thoughts make it drift helplessly farther into the future.
Further adding to my uncertainty is the isolated state in which I work on this car. Day after day I work alone in The Garage, accompanied occasionally by an Oldies radio station that fades in and out throughout the afternoon. Some days I have the garage door open, sometimes I don't. And it's here I toil for hours a day, making progress that is wonderful to me, but inconsequential to an oblivious world that only peers inside when I blog about my endeavors on here. Even then I'm not so sure anyone reads what I write, but considering that I started this blog merely to be a record of my restoration projects, I guess I never intended it to be widely read. But I digress.
This isolation makes it difficult to gauge my work. I can't find other blogs out there that walk readers through a brass car restoration like mine, so I have no idea if my progress is average, slow or incomplete. Many of the notes I send to owners and brass car specialists go unanswered, and the few that come back only address one of many questions I have over time. It's frustrating, but not totally unexpected.
Some of that fortune changed the other day when I received two emails from two different gentlemen in Australia. Neither have restored a Maxwell like mine, but both have worked on two-cylinder versions of my car, and both have gorgeous cars to which I hope mine can compare someday. The first email, especially, caught me off-guard with one short line.
"Keep at it," he wrote, "you are doing well."
He didn't elaborate, nor did he sing my praises anymore than beyond that line, but I needed that. I stopped reading for a moment and smiled. Only a few people in my life have ever said that I'm doing a good job on the Maxwell, and while I'm not a narcissistic person who needs to hear encouragement, it felt very good to hear such words from someone who has been in my shoes. To read that from someone who has resurrected a Maxwell of his own, it felt great.
So as I continue on my project, only I know the remaining steps of the restoration. Each and every one is planned out in my head, and at any given time I have countless aspects of several steps swimming around my thoughts. I know which parts should be easy and which ones will be challenging, and I know that there are many steps along the way that won't go as planned, too. There will inevitably be moments when I'm thrown a wonderfully complex loop, and there will be moments when I do something foolish and set myself back a few steps, but that's part of the game. That's what I find so enthralling with restoring this little car.
When people will ask me what I did this summer, I'll say, in part, that I worked in The Garage and made great progress on the Maxwell. They'll smile and nod and find that interesting, but they'll have no idea of the moments when I sat inside the car's frame, my arms and neck intertwined with the rusted linkages as I scrub 100 years' worth of grime from the car's body. They'll have no knowledge of the bloodied hands and the countless times when I've left The Garage covered from head to toe in dust, dirt and grime. They won't know of my occasional frustration from fighting back the hands of time, and they won't know the sheer joy I share with the spirit of my grandfather whenever I make substantial progress.
But I will. I remember all of it, and that's why I love doing this. I'm not restoring a car for other people, nor am I struggling and hitting the car to impress others. I'm doing this because I want to. I'm being so meticulous for myself and for the spirit of the little car, whose sad life saw it spend most of its existence forgotten or neglected. I want to make the car a show winner not for me, but because she deserves it. And when she gets the honor and love she's been due for decades, I'll remember the blood and sweat, and I'll know every minute was worth it.
As storms worked their way through the area and the humidity soared, I knew I couldn't do much with paint/primer and filler, so I thought I'd explore The Garage a little. Moving the ladder around, I peeked above the plywood boards that make up the ceiling to see the loft---a mysterious frontier that has sat perfectly still for half a century. The last person to move things around up there was my late grandfather, slowly accumulating items that he would buy from businesses that were closing their doors.
As a result, the bizarre mishmash of everything that occupies the loft in The Garage is wonderfully enigmatic. Here's a fender, there's a grille, here's a box of bearings from the 1920s, there's a 1930s soapbox full of 1930s gauges. On and on it goes, and it's all tossed so haphazardly in the dark, dusty space under the peak of the roof that I have to carry a light with me as I slide my way around on my stomach.
In the end I was so thrilled with some of the treasures I uncovered, even if most people would dismiss them as a disjointed set of car parts and knickknacks.
By the time the weather improved I could finally work on the Maxwell and continue with my cleaning of the transmission.
In a way I had been blessed by the foibles of the old compressor, as all of the word I had received from the gentleman who had worked on these cars said not to sandblast the alloy case. Thankfully my blasting had only knocked off the top layer of grease and not damaged the transmission, so I took down the tarps that hung from the car's sides and got a screwdriver and mineral spirits. Scraping off the thickest dried grease, I then dabbed the metal with mineral spirits recycled from the transmission case.
 |
| The exhaust (L) and intake (R) gears, with the magneto's gear (C). |
With the case clear, I set out to remove the remainder of the linkages that would normally sit under the front floor (these included linkages for the brakes, clutch and gears). It was here where the bane of my existence, those pesky rusted pins, began to mess with me again.
So painfully simple, these smooth pins are only held in with a cotter pin, yet over the last century they've become rusted and seized in their holes, refusing to budge even with the roughest persuasion I could apply. Two of these pins in particular hung up my restoration for several hours in the past couple of days.
 |
| You can just barely see it here, but this is the cracked clamp. |
After all of this, I had every one of the linkages off and began work on cleaning and smoothing them. I did the same for the gear selector plate (that pivots on the gearbox and moves the fork inside). I scrubbed incessantly with the wire brush on the frame, occasionally uncovering some of the original blue paint that once adorned the entire underbody.
Over time I headed up to the engine to scrub there, and at the same time I started some disassembly (only of the most superficial parts). I took the radiator fan off to clean and smooth it, and I must say, that turned out beautifully. I only had to replace the ball bearings a few times after they all fell out, but by the end I had provisions in place to stop them from escaping again.
Excitingly, I'm nearly ready to reassemble all of those linkages, which means I can move entirely to the engine for the immediate future. I realize some aspects of this may require quite a bit of work---possibly removing the entire engine from the car for a while, or at least taking off the heads to clean the cylinders---and in some cases this will take a couple of people to do, but I'm thrilled to get there. I didn't know how long it would take me to sort everything out rearward, but I didn't figure I would get into the engine for quite some time. I can only do so much, though.
 |
| The radiator fan before... |
This is definitely disappointing, as every other time I think about the car, it feels like I'm getting more and more ahead of schedule in completing it. What was once a distant, undated future completion date is drawing nearer and nearer with every 6+ hour shift I put in, but some thoughts make it drift helplessly farther into the future.
 |
| ...and after! |
This isolation makes it difficult to gauge my work. I can't find other blogs out there that walk readers through a brass car restoration like mine, so I have no idea if my progress is average, slow or incomplete. Many of the notes I send to owners and brass car specialists go unanswered, and the few that come back only address one of many questions I have over time. It's frustrating, but not totally unexpected.
Some of that fortune changed the other day when I received two emails from two different gentlemen in Australia. Neither have restored a Maxwell like mine, but both have worked on two-cylinder versions of my car, and both have gorgeous cars to which I hope mine can compare someday. The first email, especially, caught me off-guard with one short line.
"Keep at it," he wrote, "you are doing well."
He didn't elaborate, nor did he sing my praises anymore than beyond that line, but I needed that. I stopped reading for a moment and smiled. Only a few people in my life have ever said that I'm doing a good job on the Maxwell, and while I'm not a narcissistic person who needs to hear encouragement, it felt very good to hear such words from someone who has been in my shoes. To read that from someone who has resurrected a Maxwell of his own, it felt great.
So as I continue on my project, only I know the remaining steps of the restoration. Each and every one is planned out in my head, and at any given time I have countless aspects of several steps swimming around my thoughts. I know which parts should be easy and which ones will be challenging, and I know that there are many steps along the way that won't go as planned, too. There will inevitably be moments when I'm thrown a wonderfully complex loop, and there will be moments when I do something foolish and set myself back a few steps, but that's part of the game. That's what I find so enthralling with restoring this little car.
When people will ask me what I did this summer, I'll say, in part, that I worked in The Garage and made great progress on the Maxwell. They'll smile and nod and find that interesting, but they'll have no idea of the moments when I sat inside the car's frame, my arms and neck intertwined with the rusted linkages as I scrub 100 years' worth of grime from the car's body. They'll have no knowledge of the bloodied hands and the countless times when I've left The Garage covered from head to toe in dust, dirt and grime. They won't know of my occasional frustration from fighting back the hands of time, and they won't know the sheer joy I share with the spirit of my grandfather whenever I make substantial progress.
But I will. I remember all of it, and that's why I love doing this. I'm not restoring a car for other people, nor am I struggling and hitting the car to impress others. I'm doing this because I want to. I'm being so meticulous for myself and for the spirit of the little car, whose sad life saw it spend most of its existence forgotten or neglected. I want to make the car a show winner not for me, but because she deserves it. And when she gets the honor and love she's been due for decades, I'll remember the blood and sweat, and I'll know every minute was worth it.
06 July, 2009
Reliving Route 66
I realize that this post is a bit overdue, but nonetheless, a break in my busyness has allocated some time blogging time. First off, the Goodguys car show. One must realize that this has been our goal for the past few years---getting the car to the show and back---but we've never been able to make it there for one reason or another. This year, though, barring any sudden problems, we were ready.
I got up Friday morning around 5:45 a.m. to make some final detailing touches to the car and to load up our gear (cleaning supplies, a cooler, a chair, our plaque, etc.). Right around 6:30 a.m. my dad started the car's 283 cubic inch V8, I climbed in, and we were off. The sun shone brightly on what would go on to be a perfect day weather-wise, and we progressed smoothly down the old highway---the same path my dad used to take in his first '61 whenever he'd go to the capital city.
It's a unique experience, I must say, driving in the early morning in a car like that. I experienced a little of that feeling when I went on our final Dawn Patrol, but even that did not compare with the trek to Goodguys; the incredible openness of that car, the fog slowly lifting off the rising crops, the cool morning air just beginning to radiate heat from the pavement below. The engine note was smooth and calm whereas the suspension was a bit hard, and before we knew it we'd arrived at the show. Pulling in and parking, we'd at least made it to the grounds. The real test would come when we were going to start the car again following registration.
After getting our number, true to form the car would not start immediately after returning to it. Dad had me remove the air filter (which was hot to the touch) to see if that would make a difference, but whether or not it did was questionable. Nevertheless the car started a couple of tries later, and we were on our way.
Waiting in line, my agitated father could only sit and coast behind an obnoxious Chevelle equipped with giant tires, a nonexistant exhaust, and racing fuel. We were gassed by this classless hot rod for about ten minutes, all the while being unable to hear our own engine---and thus any potential problems that may have arisen from it not starting a few minutes prior. We entered the grounds safely, though, and promptly went the opposite direction of the disfigured Chevelle. A shady spot on a hill was located, and after making sure the car wouldn't roll forward I began my detailing before anyone came over to admire it.
Over the next few hours the weather stayed as near to perfection as it could, and we received many positive comments about our car. Many loved my old transistor radio that I set on the passenger seat, and they also took interest in the plaque I made, giving details about production statistics, accessories, and the #1 song of 1961 (which was "Tossin' and Turnin'" by Bobby Lewis, in case you are wondering).
At one point my father noticed that there were a couple of people walking around the car, looking at it from every direction. They had clipboards and pens, seeming disinterested in the decorations and enthralled by the overall of the car. One finally walked around and took down our car entry number, and it was then that my father and I couldn't believe our ears.
"Yes, I'm voting for this one," the man said to his partner, not even acknowledging our presence a few feet away. With a smile, the people turned and left, and that was that. Upon reflection, though, the more I think about this the more I am blown away. There were over 3,500 cars at the Goodguys show that day, and for any judge to walk up to our car---a car that is not even complete or wholly correct---and vote it for Best of Show, it just boggles my mind! It's an incredible testament to the beauty of that car, but also perhaps fate had a hand in it too. Who knows? Either way we were not in it for any awards. Just think, though, we got one more vote than I ever thought we'd get! I had to pat the car on the quarterpanel for that one; she should be proud.
By the end of the day I had told the story of that car and her curse a few times, and each time I couldn't help but think how much more than a normal car this is. We weren't just the restorers of that Corvette, we are engrained in it. Every member of my immediate family has worked tirelessly over the years to get it done. My mom contacted dealers and parts owners all over the U.S. for years to put this car back together, and she helped in its construction, too. She kept track of money and time tables, as well as many other things of which I'm probably not aware. My dad was the architect of this project, bringing together his lifelong experience with Corvettes and the masterful technical skills his father taught him. Without his knowledge, I wouldn't be where I am today in terms of my knowledge of cars and restoration. He's taught me so much, yet I feel like I know so little of what knowledge he possesses. My parents have worked together on this with me, and so have my friends. I've had friends help me do things like put in the transmission, replace the radiator, clean the car, or even just stand around it and talk. So much of who we are is in that car, and it's a neat feeling.
Once we were finally ready to leave the show, everything was packed up and the engine was started. Thankfully we had just as smooth a ride back as we did that morning, and by the end of the day the car resting peacefully, still in one piece and still operating.
Tomorrow I'll go up to the garage and start her again, checking fluid levels and all other vitals. Nothing should be wrong, but I wouldn't put it past this car, honestly...
Also tomorrow I'll continue working on the hard top window; if I have time this week, ideally I'll progress through all of the grits, and we'll have a completely clear hard top window again. Also I'll see what I can do about our driver's side door (it doesn't shut as easily as it should) and getting the soft top frame ready to have fabric put on it. I still have about a week and a half to get that frame completely ready, but that's assuming that as soon as the fabric gets here, someone will be able to put it on. I'm not so sure that will be the case, so I may have to call a family friend tomorrow and see if he can do it.
Well, this post has definitely gotten long enough, but I wanted to give an update about the weekend and what my plans are this week. With any luck all will go to plan and the car will even be able to make it to a local car show this Wednesday. We'll see about that, though.
I got up Friday morning around 5:45 a.m. to make some final detailing touches to the car and to load up our gear (cleaning supplies, a cooler, a chair, our plaque, etc.). Right around 6:30 a.m. my dad started the car's 283 cubic inch V8, I climbed in, and we were off. The sun shone brightly on what would go on to be a perfect day weather-wise, and we progressed smoothly down the old highway---the same path my dad used to take in his first '61 whenever he'd go to the capital city.
It's a unique experience, I must say, driving in the early morning in a car like that. I experienced a little of that feeling when I went on our final Dawn Patrol, but even that did not compare with the trek to Goodguys; the incredible openness of that car, the fog slowly lifting off the rising crops, the cool morning air just beginning to radiate heat from the pavement below. The engine note was smooth and calm whereas the suspension was a bit hard, and before we knew it we'd arrived at the show. Pulling in and parking, we'd at least made it to the grounds. The real test would come when we were going to start the car again following registration.
After getting our number, true to form the car would not start immediately after returning to it. Dad had me remove the air filter (which was hot to the touch) to see if that would make a difference, but whether or not it did was questionable. Nevertheless the car started a couple of tries later, and we were on our way.
Waiting in line, my agitated father could only sit and coast behind an obnoxious Chevelle equipped with giant tires, a nonexistant exhaust, and racing fuel. We were gassed by this classless hot rod for about ten minutes, all the while being unable to hear our own engine---and thus any potential problems that may have arisen from it not starting a few minutes prior. We entered the grounds safely, though, and promptly went the opposite direction of the disfigured Chevelle. A shady spot on a hill was located, and after making sure the car wouldn't roll forward I began my detailing before anyone came over to admire it.
Over the next few hours the weather stayed as near to perfection as it could, and we received many positive comments about our car. Many loved my old transistor radio that I set on the passenger seat, and they also took interest in the plaque I made, giving details about production statistics, accessories, and the #1 song of 1961 (which was "Tossin' and Turnin'" by Bobby Lewis, in case you are wondering).
At one point my father noticed that there were a couple of people walking around the car, looking at it from every direction. They had clipboards and pens, seeming disinterested in the decorations and enthralled by the overall of the car. One finally walked around and took down our car entry number, and it was then that my father and I couldn't believe our ears.
"Yes, I'm voting for this one," the man said to his partner, not even acknowledging our presence a few feet away. With a smile, the people turned and left, and that was that. Upon reflection, though, the more I think about this the more I am blown away. There were over 3,500 cars at the Goodguys show that day, and for any judge to walk up to our car---a car that is not even complete or wholly correct---and vote it for Best of Show, it just boggles my mind! It's an incredible testament to the beauty of that car, but also perhaps fate had a hand in it too. Who knows? Either way we were not in it for any awards. Just think, though, we got one more vote than I ever thought we'd get! I had to pat the car on the quarterpanel for that one; she should be proud.
By the end of the day I had told the story of that car and her curse a few times, and each time I couldn't help but think how much more than a normal car this is. We weren't just the restorers of that Corvette, we are engrained in it. Every member of my immediate family has worked tirelessly over the years to get it done. My mom contacted dealers and parts owners all over the U.S. for years to put this car back together, and she helped in its construction, too. She kept track of money and time tables, as well as many other things of which I'm probably not aware. My dad was the architect of this project, bringing together his lifelong experience with Corvettes and the masterful technical skills his father taught him. Without his knowledge, I wouldn't be where I am today in terms of my knowledge of cars and restoration. He's taught me so much, yet I feel like I know so little of what knowledge he possesses. My parents have worked together on this with me, and so have my friends. I've had friends help me do things like put in the transmission, replace the radiator, clean the car, or even just stand around it and talk. So much of who we are is in that car, and it's a neat feeling.
Once we were finally ready to leave the show, everything was packed up and the engine was started. Thankfully we had just as smooth a ride back as we did that morning, and by the end of the day the car resting peacefully, still in one piece and still operating.
Tomorrow I'll go up to the garage and start her again, checking fluid levels and all other vitals. Nothing should be wrong, but I wouldn't put it past this car, honestly...
Also tomorrow I'll continue working on the hard top window; if I have time this week, ideally I'll progress through all of the grits, and we'll have a completely clear hard top window again. Also I'll see what I can do about our driver's side door (it doesn't shut as easily as it should) and getting the soft top frame ready to have fabric put on it. I still have about a week and a half to get that frame completely ready, but that's assuming that as soon as the fabric gets here, someone will be able to put it on. I'm not so sure that will be the case, so I may have to call a family friend tomorrow and see if he can do it.
Well, this post has definitely gotten long enough, but I wanted to give an update about the weekend and what my plans are this week. With any luck all will go to plan and the car will even be able to make it to a local car show this Wednesday. We'll see about that, though.
23 June, 2009
Rusted Windows and Lost History
I went up to the garage today. I must say, I do not know how hot blue blazes are, but our garage was definitely hotter than them this afternoon. The warm air outside was riding the front edge of a cold front that hadn't made it to my town yet, so in the midst of 112 degree heat indexes I decided to take a small ceramic heater and a cold Pepsi with me to the garage to see what I could do. The heater, by the way, has a cool setting on it, so it wasn't just for heat. Anyway, unlocking and walking into the garage, I was hit with a dense mass of stagnant, humid, hot air. By the time I had walked around the cars and reached the spot where the hard top was perched over a stool and a platform of bricks and wood I was already glistening with sweat.
Our neighbor's niece was out washing her car in the driveway opposite of me, but with a looming storm on the horizon, I wasn't so sure of her timing. Safe and dry inside my humble mechanical abode, I settled down to do some sanding on the plexiglass hard top. Practically done with the 3200 grit, I can now move up to the 4000-some grit tomorrow and hopefully onto the 8000-some grit shortly thereafter. I wasn't thinking about that yet, though. The heat was overbearing even with the little ceramic trying to blow out some cold air. I never did open my Pepsi, either. Nevertheless, in a matter of seconds the cold front blasted through the area. Temperatures dropped by nearly 20 degrees as leaves and branches were being blown off of the trees around our yards. I propped open the side door to the garage (lest it blew itself off its hinges) and then opened a couple of the old windows.
As a little aside here, up until a couple of years ago, those windows hadn't been opened for a couple of decades. I knew they could probably open, but I never tried it. Finally one day I gently pushed, progressively pressing harder and harder until the windows opened. In a probably lame way I felt as though I was giving the garage some of its functionality back, and that made me mildly happy. It felt more like a garage, I thought. My next step (someday) will be to clean all of the windows, grease all of the hinges, and repaint the window frames their original color, just to make the garage look better. That will come right before I start trying to shore up the large wooden door---the heavy one that has been on the front of the garage since it was built by my grandfather, his brother, and my father back when my father was young. That's for another day, though, when a few of these other projects have been finished.
Anywho, rain started to pour down from the sky in sheets, so I figured that before I got blown away I would run back home and dry off. That meant nothing was done on the Maxwell, and relatively little was done to the hard top, but that's okay. If need be, the hard top can be affixed to the Vette, and you can see through it well enough. I'll try to tackle some more of both cars tomorrow---depending on the heat---before the car show in the evening, to which we may take the old Corvette. We'll just have to see. She won't move unless I get that gear out of the transmission that I spoke of in the last post---it wouldn't exactly make people "ooh" and "ahh" at a car grinding and groaning its way into the parking lot...
Later on I headed over to a friend's house to watch last weekend's Formula 1 race. It was the British Grand Prix from the legendary Silverstone racetrack, and I must say that it will be quite sad to see the old circuit leave the calendar next year. That's a whole other post, though, if I want to ramble on about the mistakes the FIA, FOTA, and Formula 1 in general have been making lately. Watching the race, though, the night wasn't about greiving for the RAF airfield or about the potential death of F1 as we know it. Instead it was about leaving all of those things in the dust and doing what those drivers are passionate about doing. It was not about the politics, both empty and loaded threats, or punditry. Instead it was about the spectacle---untarnished, harkening back to its roots, and incredibly adored. Even the BBC couldn't resist throwing in a sad piece at the end about the history F1 is losing by leaving the track, but in all it was a good, fun night.
As I was going to leave, my friend and I started talking about our summers and all that this town means to us. What started as a casual parting conversation turned into an hour and a half discussion about many aspects of our lives, and it made me realize a few things about myself, too. At one point he asked me something like "Do you feel like this town is where you're meant to be?" That's a tough question that I really can't explain. Yes, I feel like this town is where my life is and will be for quite some time, but I don't feel that it's the town itself that makes it this way. While away at college I never felt like I had moved away to go to study. I felt instead like I was away for a few months, getting to go home a few times in the process. For me, what this town means to me is that it's where my family resides. It's where I have great memories and good friends. It's where I can come home, golf at a golf course where people know my name, or go up and work in the garage. It's a place where I can be me, and people will actually know me and like me for it (unlike at college, where I can be me, but none of that other stuff really happens). The town itself, though, is not why I feel like I'm meant to be here, nor do I even see myself being here for the future. I know that it will always be my home, but unfortunately we must face the fact that my town is struggling economically, we aren't alluring to new businesses, there aren't opportunities for our youth to have a solid future here, and our city government has not done an ideal job of getting us out of any of these situations.
Despite all of this, though, when I think of where my soul can be true, it's here. I don't feel like my life is in our state capital even if that's where I go to school. Even though I have a small number of friends at school, I don't feel like that's where my friends truly are located. That last statement has had to be rethought, though, for the first time this summer.
I had known that such a scenario would be a possibility, but I just wasn't ready for the fact that this summer so few friends of mine would be returning to my home town. What's more is that the ones who have rarely ever get in contact with me anymore, which is basically like having them gone anyway. Leaning against our cars this evening, talking to my friend really made me realize how much I miss having my old friends, and having them in the way that they were. I suppose this happens to everyone at one time or another, but it has hurt undescribably much when so many people I have been close to have gone away to university only to change so much that they lose touch or choose not to regain contact with me. And unfortunately that's happened with far too many of my old friends. Phone numbers are practically useless with some anymore because they rarely ever respond to texts or calls. Once usual members of gatherings at my house and at others' houses are conspicuously absent anymore for some unknown reason. Valuable friends who I have never stopped liking rarely ever call to say hello or to make dinner plans.
I should say, though, that not everyone has been like this. For those who are close to me, they know that they are some of the few who actually followed my wish never to lose touch. They still know me for who I am, and they still carry with them the memories that forged our friendship over the years. Pulling things full circle, perhaps they are the sport itself---strong, cohesive and healthy---whereas my old friends are like Silverstone was for us this evening: If it weren't for that track, the sport would not have gotten its start, and it definitely would not have been the same if it did. The track's loss is something that should rightfully be mourned due to its history and influence, but the sport will still live on. A lost piece of history will not throw the future into disrepute, but just as with Silverstone, one should not be so sure that the old circuit will never return to the sport. And I truly do await the day when all of my old friends and I can get together again and have things be as they were. Even if this day never comes, I smile imagining what it will be like with old jokes abounding and familiar laughs spawning a gallery of others. It would be worth it even if, for only one moment, all of the past falling outs and changes in lifestyles slipped out of our memories and settled into an empty abyss. For that one moment we could revel in the spectacle of friendship---untarnished once again, harkening back to its roots, and incredibly adored by all who have returned.
Perhaps that day will come, but even if it does not I know that those friendships---some of whom have all but disappeared, some of whom have relocated for the summer in order to do something they love or are passionate to do---have been invaluable in my life, and I couldn't imagine what I would be without them.
Our neighbor's niece was out washing her car in the driveway opposite of me, but with a looming storm on the horizon, I wasn't so sure of her timing. Safe and dry inside my humble mechanical abode, I settled down to do some sanding on the plexiglass hard top. Practically done with the 3200 grit, I can now move up to the 4000-some grit tomorrow and hopefully onto the 8000-some grit shortly thereafter. I wasn't thinking about that yet, though. The heat was overbearing even with the little ceramic trying to blow out some cold air. I never did open my Pepsi, either. Nevertheless, in a matter of seconds the cold front blasted through the area. Temperatures dropped by nearly 20 degrees as leaves and branches were being blown off of the trees around our yards. I propped open the side door to the garage (lest it blew itself off its hinges) and then opened a couple of the old windows.
As a little aside here, up until a couple of years ago, those windows hadn't been opened for a couple of decades. I knew they could probably open, but I never tried it. Finally one day I gently pushed, progressively pressing harder and harder until the windows opened. In a probably lame way I felt as though I was giving the garage some of its functionality back, and that made me mildly happy. It felt more like a garage, I thought. My next step (someday) will be to clean all of the windows, grease all of the hinges, and repaint the window frames their original color, just to make the garage look better. That will come right before I start trying to shore up the large wooden door---the heavy one that has been on the front of the garage since it was built by my grandfather, his brother, and my father back when my father was young. That's for another day, though, when a few of these other projects have been finished.
Anywho, rain started to pour down from the sky in sheets, so I figured that before I got blown away I would run back home and dry off. That meant nothing was done on the Maxwell, and relatively little was done to the hard top, but that's okay. If need be, the hard top can be affixed to the Vette, and you can see through it well enough. I'll try to tackle some more of both cars tomorrow---depending on the heat---before the car show in the evening, to which we may take the old Corvette. We'll just have to see. She won't move unless I get that gear out of the transmission that I spoke of in the last post---it wouldn't exactly make people "ooh" and "ahh" at a car grinding and groaning its way into the parking lot...
Later on I headed over to a friend's house to watch last weekend's Formula 1 race. It was the British Grand Prix from the legendary Silverstone racetrack, and I must say that it will be quite sad to see the old circuit leave the calendar next year. That's a whole other post, though, if I want to ramble on about the mistakes the FIA, FOTA, and Formula 1 in general have been making lately. Watching the race, though, the night wasn't about greiving for the RAF airfield or about the potential death of F1 as we know it. Instead it was about leaving all of those things in the dust and doing what those drivers are passionate about doing. It was not about the politics, both empty and loaded threats, or punditry. Instead it was about the spectacle---untarnished, harkening back to its roots, and incredibly adored. Even the BBC couldn't resist throwing in a sad piece at the end about the history F1 is losing by leaving the track, but in all it was a good, fun night.
As I was going to leave, my friend and I started talking about our summers and all that this town means to us. What started as a casual parting conversation turned into an hour and a half discussion about many aspects of our lives, and it made me realize a few things about myself, too. At one point he asked me something like "Do you feel like this town is where you're meant to be?" That's a tough question that I really can't explain. Yes, I feel like this town is where my life is and will be for quite some time, but I don't feel that it's the town itself that makes it this way. While away at college I never felt like I had moved away to go to study. I felt instead like I was away for a few months, getting to go home a few times in the process. For me, what this town means to me is that it's where my family resides. It's where I have great memories and good friends. It's where I can come home, golf at a golf course where people know my name, or go up and work in the garage. It's a place where I can be me, and people will actually know me and like me for it (unlike at college, where I can be me, but none of that other stuff really happens). The town itself, though, is not why I feel like I'm meant to be here, nor do I even see myself being here for the future. I know that it will always be my home, but unfortunately we must face the fact that my town is struggling economically, we aren't alluring to new businesses, there aren't opportunities for our youth to have a solid future here, and our city government has not done an ideal job of getting us out of any of these situations.
Despite all of this, though, when I think of where my soul can be true, it's here. I don't feel like my life is in our state capital even if that's where I go to school. Even though I have a small number of friends at school, I don't feel like that's where my friends truly are located. That last statement has had to be rethought, though, for the first time this summer.
I had known that such a scenario would be a possibility, but I just wasn't ready for the fact that this summer so few friends of mine would be returning to my home town. What's more is that the ones who have rarely ever get in contact with me anymore, which is basically like having them gone anyway. Leaning against our cars this evening, talking to my friend really made me realize how much I miss having my old friends, and having them in the way that they were. I suppose this happens to everyone at one time or another, but it has hurt undescribably much when so many people I have been close to have gone away to university only to change so much that they lose touch or choose not to regain contact with me. And unfortunately that's happened with far too many of my old friends. Phone numbers are practically useless with some anymore because they rarely ever respond to texts or calls. Once usual members of gatherings at my house and at others' houses are conspicuously absent anymore for some unknown reason. Valuable friends who I have never stopped liking rarely ever call to say hello or to make dinner plans.
I should say, though, that not everyone has been like this. For those who are close to me, they know that they are some of the few who actually followed my wish never to lose touch. They still know me for who I am, and they still carry with them the memories that forged our friendship over the years. Pulling things full circle, perhaps they are the sport itself---strong, cohesive and healthy---whereas my old friends are like Silverstone was for us this evening: If it weren't for that track, the sport would not have gotten its start, and it definitely would not have been the same if it did. The track's loss is something that should rightfully be mourned due to its history and influence, but the sport will still live on. A lost piece of history will not throw the future into disrepute, but just as with Silverstone, one should not be so sure that the old circuit will never return to the sport. And I truly do await the day when all of my old friends and I can get together again and have things be as they were. Even if this day never comes, I smile imagining what it will be like with old jokes abounding and familiar laughs spawning a gallery of others. It would be worth it even if, for only one moment, all of the past falling outs and changes in lifestyles slipped out of our memories and settled into an empty abyss. For that one moment we could revel in the spectacle of friendship---untarnished once again, harkening back to its roots, and incredibly adored by all who have returned.
Perhaps that day will come, but even if it does not I know that those friendships---some of whom have all but disappeared, some of whom have relocated for the summer in order to do something they love or are passionate to do---have been invaluable in my life, and I couldn't imagine what I would be without them.
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